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User blog:SodaCat/Muse Chap 4: May I Call You Ralph?
oh my god i am turning into such ''a fanfiction spammer im so sorry ---- “Mr. Tyler? Dr. Crabblesnitch will see you now,” Jesse flashed a charming, winning smile to Miss Danvers, who in turn rolled her eyes and let out an exasperated grunt as she pulled open the enormous wooden doors to the headmaster’s office. Dr. Crabblesnitch sat in his office chair, looking mean and solemn, but Jesse meant business today. He wasn’t frightened. Well, maybe just a little, but he had extra boxers in his locker. You can never be too careful, momma always said, God rest her soul. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his navy blue-and-gold basketball shorts, Jesse swaggered into the headmaster’s office as if he owned the place. Crabblesnitch, unimpressed, pinched the bridge of his nose as he instructed Jesse to sit down. “To what is it that I owe this pleasure, Mr. Tyler?” He asked, somewhat sarcastically. “Well, Ralph—may I call you Ralph?” Jesse began, leaning forward and placing his elbows on his knees, holding his intertwined fingers out in front of him. He disregarded Crabblesnitch’s obviously frustrated stare and dismissive wave of his hand, taking it as permission for referring to the headmaster as his equal. “I have a big issue. One that can only be fixed by a man by the likes of you, my friend,” Jesse announced, his voice big and business-like. Sighing, Crabblesnitch propped forward a bit, knowing what this was most likely due to. Jesse took a deep breath, knowing that this was most likely gonna roll over in his favor. “The fact remains, Ralph, buddy, pal… Photography is no place for a ‘redneck-country-Brad-Paisley-wanna-be’ like me, sir, in the words of sweet, young, Mandy Wiles. Though I do hand it to her, that ''was ''some real nice rhymin’,” he added thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. The headmaster nodded, having guessed correctly about what Jesse would be complaining about today. He’d taken a chance on placing the boy in the class, thinking that maybe it’d soften him down and would help round him into a more self-controlled student. In reality, he’d expected Jesse in his office much sooner, demanding to be removed from the class. “Mr. Tyler,” Crabblesnitch began, standing and examining the bust of a past headmaster he had on his bookshelf, “before we go negotiating anything, have you been trying to do well in this class? Say, try to get ''along ''with Miss Wiles?” Jesse scoffed, rolling his eyes. ''Boy had he been tryin’ to get along with ‘Miss Wiles’. “There’s two theories to arguin’ with women, mister, and not one of ‘em works. Sir, fact is, I’ve been workin’ harder than a one-legged man in an ass kickin’ contest, and that girl ain’t givin’ me no rope to pull on.” “Pardon my French,” Jesse added quickly, upon being iced by the disapproving glare Crabblesnitch shot him. Crabblesnitch sighed, rubbing his temples gently with his right hand. He was getting too old for this job, and these endless foolish complaints from students. “Mr. Tyler, I strongly suggest you try and continue on with this class. You might learn a thing or two about yourself before you graduate and head off into the world…” And join up some rodeo or cattle-rounding job? Jesse blinked, not understanding the headmaster. Learn something about himself? Please. There wasn’t any depth to him except football, horse riding, and girl-kissing. Crabblesnitch could be so bothersome when he wanted to be. “The fact is sir, you’re the one fuckin’ the chicken here and I’m just holdin’ its wings,” he noticed the headmaster’s stern, yet confused expression, before quickly clarifying that he simply had no control over the matter, and, once again, excusing his French. Still, Crabblesnitch shook his head. “I truly believe this is the best course for you, Mr. Tyler. Please shut the door on your way out,” he countered, with a wave of his hand. *** “I don’t know man, but there is no way I’m stayin’ in that class.” Jesse and Casey walked up the stairs leading away from the football field, tired and sore after football practice. Burton was always bitterly grueling and harsh with football practice—the guys on the team thought it was some sort of retaliation over not ever getting drafted—and some clown had taken it upon himself to shoot the players with a slingshot while they were running suicides. Nobody respected the noble art of football these days. It was probably one of those stupid fucking preps. Jesse’d kill them when he got the chance. Casey nodded, understanding his best friend’s predicament. “Definitely man, I’m surprised you even stayed as long as you have. Mandy sounds like she’s on the rag whenever she’s around you.” He’d just learned about Jesse’s photography class dilemma, which had only increased exponentially since the first day of class. “She’s always callin’ me dumb whenever I ask anythin’ bout that damn camera! Ain’t my fault none of that shit makes sense,” Jesse whined, pulling his jersey off and rubbing at his left shoulder, which was throbbing in pain from where he’d gotten hit with the slingshot, “bitch is colder than a witch’s tit.” “She really hates you,” Casey agreed, and the two of them momentarily paused their conversation to wink and catcall Christy Martin and Pinky Gauthier, who were walking out of the gym in their cheerleading gear. Both girls giggled and blew kisses, eyeing Jesse’s impressive six pack and Casey’s sweaty blond hair that had been pushed back from his forehead. As soon as the girls were out of sight, they kept talking as they walked down the steps to the boy’s locker room. “I don’t know what I done to ‘er—all I know is she can’t stand the sight of me.” Casey shrugged, pulling his jersey up over his head and off his well-sculpted chest. “Maybe she’s got a thing against Texas. City girls have that type of thing about them, y’know?” Jesse shook his head, stepping out of his smelly, dirty football pants before ducking into one of the showers and throwing off his boxers. He turned on the shower, savoring as the warm water hit his chest, and began cleaning the sweat and dirt off himself. “Nah man, everybody say Texas’ country as hell but we got Dallas and San Antonio and Houston. Hell, we got cities like the big ones in New York.” “Man,” Casey disputed, and Jesse heard the shower curtain beside him scrape as Casey moved it aside, “you talk about riding horses and doing all sorts of country shit all the time.” “’Course I do,” Jesse replied, grinning, “Shit, I grew up in Bandera. Ain’t no place in Texas as Texas as Bandera. But still, man, don’t mess with Texas!” Casey laughed, his voice echoing through the locker room as Jesse stepped out of his shower, wrapping a towel around his exposed waist. His vision roamed on over to the left, where he saw none other than little ole’ Beatrice Trudeau standing beet red after having seen him, holding an anatomy book to her chest as if protecting her life. Devious, Jesse winked at her, chuckling to himself as she darted off, embarrassed. “What are you gonna do about Mandy?” Casey questioned, stepping out and drying himself off while Jesse was dressing himself. As he did, the rest of the team members slowly began crowding the locker room, chatter about football and girls and cars filling the room. “Ain’t it simple?” Jesse asked, over the chatter, “I’m just gonna plow on through, lil’ miss priss be damned.” He turned to his team mates, grinning wildly. “After all, guys, go big or go home!” he shouted, laughing at the cheers and whoops they responded with. Well, they do say that the Texan folk go bigger on everything! Category:Blog posts